The Single Solider: a moving war-time drama

by George Costigan

  What is he talking about?

  “So I’ll be no use to the Super-race. What use is a flic? Eh? And a flic in War? Not even a finger in the dyke. I’m a puppet. You’re a puppet, Vermande. And you too, Miss.”

  “I know.”

  “Do you? And how long have you known that?”

  “Since I decided to do something.”

  What is she saying?

  “Cut the strings, eh? Feel good?”

  “Feels better.”

  “How does a policeman cut the strings, eh?”

  “I don’t know, sir.”

  “Me neither, Miss.”

  “Simone.”

  “Me neither. Toulouse! Why not? Who am I? Pull the puppet’s strings – there I am – in Toulouse. New streets full of guilt and ‘fuck-off-flic’. Strangers. How can you police strangers? I know you. I can police you – whatever it is I do, can’t think just now – but strangers?”

  Police us? Know us? Jacques was a statue. The room was too quiet every time Herrisson stopped speaking.

  “What do I do, Vermande?”

  What do you do? Oh Hell on Earth, talk sense, man.

  “I don’t know, Monsieur.”

  Herrisson heaved heavily and fixed Jacques slowly, securely. “What do you know, Vermande?”

  This is it.

  “I— “

  “I don’t know you,” he went on before Jacques plunged into confession, “What do you know?”

  “Nothing.”

  “Nothing?” His tone veered towards anger. “You farm, your animals, you know them— ?”

  “Yes. Oh, I see...”

  “You know there’s a storm coming. Don’t you?”

  “Oh yes...”

  “Do you know who’s going to win this war?” Eyes like ball-bearings.

  “No.”

  “Germany. Say. Let’s say. What about you then?”

  “I’d farm.”

  “And if France won? Ha! If the Americans and the English won..?”

  “I’d farm.”

  “So – you know your future.”

  “Do I? Oh, yes.”

  “No. You don’t. I know your future.”

  Jacques aged.

  “You’re to be called for The Reléve.”

  “Ohh.”

  His eyes flew to his mother’s door, back to Herrisson.

  “Not the gu... Ohh.”

  “To go to work in Germany.”

  “Yes.”

  “You’re to be called to volunteer. I’m going to call. On you. To volunteer.”

  “But— “ Jacques’ mind stalled like his plough in bedrock.

  “When?” asked Simone.

  “Tomorrow.”

  “Ohh.” Jacques sat, fell, onto his bench. His glass spilled. Herrisson looked at the wine, poured enough to replace what Jacques had spilled and then re-corked the bottle.

  “Black market. Chibret gave it me. Thinks he’s bribing me. He’s no idea what for –just thinks he ought to. Good form. Black Market, blackmail. So I won’t report him. Who would I report him to? The SS?”

  He turned to Jacques, the ashen stone-man.

  “Ever met one? An SS? I have. Incomplete. No heart. Should’ve killed it. At birth.”

  Simone saw Jacques leaving and her left with his mother and her dying for sure and then what? Her, left in their house?

  “The ultimate Policeman. All your worst nightmares in a leather coat. Vile.”

  Jacques tried to speak. “My mother...”

  “Your mother? Ah! Yes, tomorrow...”

  A silence.

  “If I refuse?” Jacques dared to splutter.

  “You won’t refuse. You won’t be here. You’ll be out.”

  “Out?”

  “Be out, Jacques. I’ll call at two. Be away.”

  A new silence.

  “On your file, in triplicate, it will read ‘Unlocated.’ Not ‘Resister.’ O.K? My Duty will be done, seen to be done. And my conscience? Well, that rotted away years ago. Pickled by Chibret’s bribes.”

  “Not so, monsieur,” said Simone, warmly.

  “Oh, sweet. But this is a good day. A French day. I have other days, bad days, German days. Can’t stop being a policeman; can’t cut the strings.”

  Jacques body unknotted enough to think –he wants nothing. He’s a Saint. He’s ignorant. He knows nothing. He needed a cigarette.

  “Arbel now. Can’t give him this.” He pocketed his bottle. “He’d drink it! No notion of taste. Lunatic.”

  He rose and Jacques wanted him to stay – now he was human.

  “And Dominique Duthileul?” Simone asked.

  Herrisson raised an eyebrow at her.

  “Bold, Mademoiselle, bold.” He gathered his hat. “None of your business I should say.”

  “No, it’s not. Exactly.”

  “No such thing as an even playing field.”

  “I know.”

  “Could make you ashamed if you thought about it. Night.”

  “Thank you, Monsieur, thank you.” Jacques wrung the hands; cold, damp, sweaty – or were those his?

  “There’s no safety, Vermande. The world is ill.” And he was gone.

  The door closed.

  They looked at each other. Younger and older. He blushed, grinned, giggled and she laughed and he laughed and they stifled it and it burst through their fingers.

  “I thought...” Jacques couldn’t speak, shook his head, and just laughed.

  “I could hear you thinking!”

  “What? What!” His mother called.

  He flung her door open. She blinked in the light and saw two silhouettes, laughing.

  “I’m not going, Mother. Germany. I’m not going.” He danced a daft jig and Simone laughed.

  “Not yet.”

  “God! Be happy, Mother! Herrisson called, I’m not going. I’ll be here. We’ll be here. Together. Duty IS good –and mine is to you.”

  At Arbel’s table Herrisson’s tone hardened.

  “I’ll go,” Arbel said, again.

  “You won’t. If I find you here tomorrow, I’ll arrest you.”

  “For what?”

  “Oh, I’ll think of something Arbel – I’m the law. Drunk and disorderly, deserting your wife? I’ll arrest you and you’ll eat my left-overs for a week. Mule-headed goat. You can go when it becomes Law and it will, Ardelle. Till then –y ou can be a husband.”

  Arbel opened his mouth.

  “Shut up, Arbel. Or I’ll thump you. Ignorance isn’t charming. It’s lazy. Damned peasant. Don’t you dare take easy choices. You can damn well stay here with the rest of us and think and struggle. Bloody cheat!” He rose, angry. “Be out, Arbel, or be very cold for a week.”

  Arbel dutifully froze for a week.

  Ardelle too, and everyone recognised a reprieve when they heard about it.

  And on the eighth night as Arbel and Ardelle held each other again, Montgomery finally launched his attack at the pride of Germany.

  His mother ate enough to keep his caring and the girl’s threat to leave at arm’s length. She and Simone sat a different kind of silent afternoon together. Simone sewed, the mother watched. Soon.

  This child is ready. Soon.

  Still the orphan didn’t come. Jacques dug manure into the vegetables and laid straw to protect the plants from the coming frosts. So did Sara, and Madame Lacaze, Duthileul, Feyt, the fat Mayor in Aurilliac, the prefect in the Auvergne, and every gardener and every farmer in the Northern Hemisphere, whichever side of this war they were on. His swallows went south. The robins would arrive soon.

  Montgomery shelled Rommel for a week, day and night.

  Jacques and Simone waited. Nothing. Curé Phillipe’s eyes avoided hers and her dread of Collaborators re-surfaced. The Curé? Possible.

  Phillipe talked. Jerome and the men listened.

  “Hitler cannot beat Russia. Napoleon couldn’t. So, this war must turn because History demands it. And we are answering History’s demands on us. We refuse.
And our refusal will allow us to look at a Russian, a British, or an American soldier without shame. Perhaps this is absurd, but only by such absurdities can we retain and restore our dignity as men. Our ideals must be Liberty, Justice and Peace. And those who put Peace first often wind up as collaborators. The times that are coming will be hard.”

  After ten days and nights of shelling Montgomery drove a hole two miles wide in Rommel’s belief and the Seventh Armoured Division and the New Zealand Division poured through and the tide of the war changed. Any tidal takes Time to wash up around the world and that much longer to roll up foothills three hundred kilometres inland.

  When Jacques answered the door there was a woman he’d never seen before. She gave him a tiny case and the hand of a small boy.

  “Here. Luther. Good luck.”

  And she turned to go.

  “How long for?”

  “I don’t know.”

  She turned to go.

  “When will they come?”

  “Who? I don’t know. Good luck.”

  And she was gone.

  The child stood.

  Boots, no socks, short trousers, jacket, eight-year-old eyes swollen with memories.

  “Hungry?” A nod.

  “Stupid question?” A smaller nod.

  “No more questions. Not tonight?” A warmer nod.

  When he slept Jacques asked, “How do we get him to Souceyrac?”

  Rommel counter-attacked, failed, fell back, and retreated. Two nights later, as a freak desert rainstorm halted the Allies’ hounding of their prey, Simone waited for twilight and then crossed Duthileul’s barbed wire and his big fields, avoiding the village curtains, and came on Madame Lacaze’s door from the Roc road. She knocked and heard someone. She knocked again. The door opened.

  “Madame Lacaze? My name is Simone.”

  “I know.”

  “I want to ask you something.”

  “Money?”

  “Yes...”

  “For my son?”

  “No.”

  “Half a truth is better than none.”

  Simone looked up the road, looked at St.Cirgues. Licked her lips and looked back at the woman. At her thin mouth.

  “I want money for children. Jewish children.”

  A beat.

  “Souceyrac?”

  “Yes.”

  “Why should I?”

  “I can’t answer that. But as you know about the escape route you must know why you haven’t given.”

  A beat.

  “Or perhaps you have?” Nothing changed on Madame Lacaze’s face, nor in her eyes. “Why should I trust you? With my money?”

  “Don’t. I wouldn’t.”

  “No?”

  “Of course not. Only come and see the child, please.”

  The desert rain lifted. Rommel ran, and the news reached the Café Tabac. Sara kissed her husband on the mouth, licked his pastis from her lips, put his hands over their child and said, “Don’t. Speak. Don’t.”

  The café was full and the village listened as Premier Laval promised France that the Bosche, their protectors, would turn at Tobruk and defeat the English once and for all; those same English who had run like rats from Dunkerque.

  The next night the clouds were high and Madame Lacaze walked. Those in the village who noticed assumed she must be going to talk money with Duthileul but why walk; why not drive, why not dig her car out? And why talk money? Because money talks to itself, of course.

  She stood with them in the oil-lamp light of the barn and Luther was impeccable in the peace of sleep. She walked back without having said a word, stood in front of the crucifix in her garden and waited.

  The Allies landed in French North Africa to trap the retreating Germans and drive them from the continent. They expected no resistance, but the French army, loyal to Petain and Vichy, fought the Americans and the English, and the press and the radio celebrated their heroism. Premier Laval called for the way to German Victory to be upheld. The radio replaced conversation and in every commune tensions bulged.

  Her car was seen driving to Puech. People sat by their curtains to await her return, but the car took a back road through Gorses to Souceyrac with Simone and Luther on the floor all the way there and Simone on the floor all the way back.

  “Good night.”

  “Good night, Madame.”

  “Don’t tell my son.”

  “What has he done to you?”

  “He doubts me. Don’t tell him.”

  Simone didn’t mention money. None of her business anyway.

  To the Allies’ horror the Vichy French Army continued to fight. According to the plan General Giraud should have stopped the fighting. When he failed to do so the Americans did a deal with Admiral Darlan, in Africa at his sick son’s bed-side, and he took command and ordered a cease-fire. Darlan was Vichy’s man.

  De Gaulle wrote to Roosevelt.

  “I understand the United States buys the treachery of Traitors, if this appears profitable, but payment must not be made against the honour of France.”

  Phillipe’s anger, too, was calm.

  “Our allies trade with Vichy. Pragmatism, not honour, is the rule. But all things must pass. These are the death-rites of disgrace.”

  Laval was incensed.

  On Sunday radio, with the congregation of the nation gathered to hear, he damned Darlan for failing to do his Duty. The cease-fire was a felony. From this moment he took command of the French Armies. He re-issued his order to fight the English and the Imperialist Americans and to make the way clear for the Forces of the Axe.

  “Who was that?” Ardelle asked when the music began again.

  “Prime Minister.” Arbel had respect in his voice.

  “Ours?”

  “Theirs,” Jerome nodded over his shoulder, “The Gathering Swine.”

  “Who’s ours then?” Ardelle asked.

  “De Gaulle.” He said it softly.

  The air stilled. Jacques looked to see if they’d been heard.

  “Oh. And where’s he then?” Ardelle asked the table.

  “London.” Jerome answered.

  “England!”

  “Shh!” Arbel and Sara were too slow.

  “What’s he doing in England?”

  “Shut up, woman!”

  “What about England?” A voice from the bar. They froze.

  “It’s cold,” called Jerome.

  “Murderers.”

  There was a silence.

  “Does he mean Jeanne D’Arc?” Arbel winked at them. They all heard a chair scrape along the floor.

  “El Kebir is what I mean.”

  It was Galtier, the postman. He came out and his cold watery eyes fixed Arbel.

  “Remember Silvane, my son? Uh? Good player, eh? Quick, brave. Remember?”

  “I remember the funeral.”

  “Exactly. 1940. Died when his ship sank. Died when his ship sank in harbour. Died when the English sank his ship in harbour! Allies they call themselves!”

  He spat.

  Sara’s hand tightened on Jerome’s arm. Simone took the man in. Gnarled at forty-five.

  “Eighteen he was...”

  “War is cruel.” Jerome said kindly.

  “Is it? How cruel is it Lacaze? Mers-el-Kebir, June 1940. How many French sailors died? Under English fire? Guess!”

  “Twelve hundred.”

  “Twelve hundred is correct. And should I trust the English now? Trust Churchill now? Churchill’s orders killed my son. Should I trust him now, eh, Lacaze?”

  Sara’s nails dug into Jerome’s arm. “Eh? Vermande?”

  “Do you trust the Bosche?” Jacques heard himself say.

  “They didn’t kill my son.” Galtier turned, surprised, on Vermande.

  “Killed my father.” Jacques gestured to Simone. “Killed her father and mother.”

  “Didn’t kill my son.” His eyes wandered, weakening. “English killed my son.”

  Arbel lowered his eyes.

 
Someone moved in the bar. The moment was passing.

  “No honour for him. Not even killed in action. That’s the English.” He turned back towards the bar.

  “All honour to him,” said Jerome, “he was prepared to die for France.”

  “Like you, Lacaze?”

  There was a silence. Don’t speak, Jerome...

  “Yes.”

  “Then you’re the fool they all say you are. It’s over. The Bosche rule Europe.”

  “Not while I live.” Jerome’s neck grew scarlet.

  “Ohh! Go on, then!” Galtier snarled. “Go on then, fight! Join! Who would you join, Lacaze? Let’s all guess.”

  “The French.”

  “Which French?”

  “The Free French. France Combattante.”

  “The Terrorists? The traitors?”

  “Patriots.”

  “Traitors! Herrisson, arrest him! No, don’t. Go on then, Lacaze – fight. You’re a big stupid strong lad. Fight the Germans. They’re in Africa. Or you could walk North, find yourself a Hun. Paris is full of ‘em. Go on. No? No – you’re sitting here, drinking and waiting, aren’t you? What are you waiting for? Uh? Shall I tell you? A call-up. Oh yes. A call-up is necessary for Lacaze. Something to rebel against. Not something to stand up for. Where is your free-will, Lacaze? Go on – go and kill his father’s killers. Do it because you believe. Eh?”

  Jerome froze in shame.

  Into the silence Simone said, “And will you fight to kill your son’s killers?”

  “Stranger.” The word spat.

  “You mean, no?” Her tone was even and even gentle.

  “Stranger.”

  “I wonder if you won’t wait for a winner and then ride home.”

  “My grief is real. Whore-bitch.”

  Arbel, Jacques and Jerome all stood and Herrisson appeared at Galtier’s elbow.

  “Foreigner.”

  “I’m French.”

  “Foreigner.”

  She sat back and her eyes dropped and Galtier stood ten long seconds more looking at them and then went inside. The bar absorbed him silently and Herrisson fitted a glass into his hand.

  “Hitler will drive you back,” he called, “you and De Gaulle and the Americans.”

  But Hitler read the writing on the African wall and in order to cover the now vulnerable Southern coast of the Mediterranean he swept into Free France, trampling Vichy’s credibility to scraps of shit, stormed down to Toulon, too late to stop French Admirals from scuttling their fleet.